There was more time spent suckling away at His Teat than anything else—even in his sleep, Xiaoqing oftentimes remained latched. As the days went by and the children grew, the boy’s gluttonous habits were beginning to show in the form of distended sides and rolls. As all children so frequently were, he was oblivious; the changes were noticed only when he moved himself, which was not often, and then quickly forgotten shortly thereafter. If life could remain this way always, he would be satisfied until the end. But life was always changing, evolving with the encouragement of developments.

Still was the moon reigning over the sky when the child awoke, a hiccup startling him—enough that his eyes slowly began to open, a sliver’s worth of gained sight increasing each time he blinked until his eyes were as wide as the moon itself. Everything seemed dark, still, the traces of moonlight seeping into the den being the only light to greet him—and he hardly noticed the change, sight blurry and unreliable. But even as young as he was, Xiao understood something was amiss. And that newly discovered disturbance led to him whining and whimpering, growing louder with each breath, ignorant of those that may be sleeping around him.

Cries brought comfort and comfort brought interest; did the more he cry correlate directly with the amount of attention received? Such was a thought to muse over another day, far into the future, when proper thought patterns no longer escaped him. For now, the boy’s whimpers slowly turned into soft coos and garbled blabbering. Unsteady, his excitement caused him to tumble over—and he took it a step further yet, rolling over onto his back.

Baby blues widened in awe, a new shadow disrupting this gift of his. Large and dark yet… soft, gentle—was this the Milk Giver? Slowly, the little sailor’s paws flung up and he batted at the shadow playfully, any ounce of sleep that clung to him previously now having flown straight out the window.

But gently did his paws brush against and passed her muzzle, hardly able to reach at first. Only when she lowered her head did he find it far easier to touch her—and as much as he could, he wondered if this was how things were meant to be. A cry bringing him attention, that attention becoming a connection… if only he were capable of thinking of these things in depth. Later in life, perhaps these same questions might find him but, for now, there was but a single focus: play.

Warm breath fanned over him, causing a shiver to shake his small frame—another new experience, the warmth that came from his mother and siblings combined usually willing such motions away. Pausing in his batting, he gazed up at her curiously: did she cause that? Huffing, the child used his hindlimbs to kick out, trying to repeat whatever it was that just happened to him.

Contact was made, which surprised him as much as it did her; his little body jolted upwards slightly and his eyes widened, confusion scrawled across his face in big, bold letters. But soon the expression was wiped away by a grin as she nuzzled his abdomen, whilst his body twisted and rolled with glee. Soft wuffs and quiet laughter flowed past his lips, a truly jolly boy.